XI Whiles thus she talked, and whiles thus she toyd, Whose pleasaunce she him shewd, and plentifull great store. XII It was a chosen plott of fertile land, 100 No daintie flowre or herbe that growes on grownd, 105 No arborett with painted blossomes drest And smelling sweete, but there it might be fownd To bud out faire, and throwe her sweete smels al arownd. XIII No tree whose braunches did not bravely spring; No braunch whereon a fine bird did not sitt ; No song but did containe a lovely ditt. Carelesse the man soone woxe, and his weake witt ENG. POEMS- -4 ΙΙΟ 115 55 XIV Thus when shee had his eyes and sences fed With false delights, and fild with pleasures vayn, Into a shady dale she soft him led, And layd him downe upon a grassy playn ; And her sweete self without dread or disdayn In her loose lap, it softly to sustayn, Where soone he slumbred fearing not be harmd: The whiles with a love lay she thus him sweetly charmd. XV 'Behold, O man! that toilesome paines doest take, XVI 'The lilly, Lady of the flowring field, The flowre-deluce, her lovly Paramoure, 120 125 130 135 Bid thee to them thy fruitlesse labors yield, And soone leave off this toylsome weary stoure: Loe, loe! how brave she decks her bounteous boure, 140 Therein to shrowd her sumptuous Belamoure; Yet nether spinnes nor cards, ne cares nor fretts, XVII Why then doest thou, O man! that of them all And waste thy joyous howres in needelesse paine, Who shall him rew that swimming in the maine Will die for thirst, and water doth refuse? Refuse such fruitlesse toile, and present pleasures chuse.' XVIII By this she had him lullèd fast asleepe, That of no worldly thing he care did take: Then she with liquors strong his eies did steepe, So she him lefte, and did her selfe betake And now is come to that same place where first she wefte. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 1554-1586 A DITTY My true love hath my heart, and I have his, 145 150 155 160 5 His heart in me keeps him and me in one, I cherish his because in me it bides: My true love hath my heart, and I have his. SONNET XXXI WITH how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies! Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit? Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? IC 15 20 JOHN LYLY 1554?-1606 APELLES' SONG [From Alexander and Campaspe] CUPID and my Campaspe played He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, His mother's doves, and team of sparrows; Loses them too; then down he throws 5 The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how), And then the dimple of his chin; O Love! has she done this to thee? MICHAEL DRAYTON 1563-1631 SONNET LXI SINCE there's no help, come let us kiss and part! Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over, 5 ΙΟ |